The Runner by Christopher Reich Read Free Book Online Page A

black telephone, pulling the cord behind it so he could set the apparatus on his desk. Lifting the receiver, he dialed a five digit number in London.
    A woman answered after three rings. “Personnel.”
    “I need to speak to Walter Williams, please. It’s his nephew, Victor.”
    “Thank you. I’ll put you right through.”
    Two minutes passed until a deep, gravelly voice came onto the line. “That you, Bob? We secure?”
    “Yes, Bill, the line’s clear,” said Storey. “We’ve got a rather interesting situation developing over here. A war criminal’s escaped and one of Jackson’s boys wants to go after him.”
    “A lawyer? You’re kidding?”
    “I believe we all practiced the trade at some time in our life. Unlike us, this one did the exciting stuff before joining the bar.”
    Storey had spent the first part of the year on a mission for his friend “Bill.” Traveling behind Russian lines, he’d accompanied a team of Red Army jurists as they dealt with suspected war criminals. Usually, the accused were brought before the court at dawn, tried by lunch, and shot by dusk. It wasn’t the exercise of justice. Just power.
    “Is that right?” asked Bill. “Don’t leave me hanging.”
    “This man happened to be a peace officer in his other life.”
    “We call them policemen outside of Texas,” Bill laughed. “Give me the details.”
    Storey relayed the news of Seyss’s escape, Judge’s interest in the German officer, and his success in obtaining a transfer to Patton’s Third Army, Office of the Provost Marshal. He even recited the text of Eisenhower’s orders verbatim. A photographic memory was one of the attributes that had made him such an attractive find.
    “And when is Judge leaving?”
    “Tomorrow morning,” said Storey.
    “Well, you were right to let me know, Bob. Many thanks. I’ll make sure we keep an eye on him. After all, we wouldn’t want the boy causing us any trouble.”

CHAPTER
    4
    A PERSISTENT RAPPING ON THE bedroom door roused him from his slumber.
    “Herr Seyss, it is time to wake. You are to dress and come to the salon at once.”
    “Sofort,”
Seyss answered, his voice immediately clear. Right away.
    Lifting his head from the down pillow, he squinted into the darkness and willed the room into focus. Slowly, reluctantly, it obliged: the armoire where he’d hung his clothing, the night table where a basin of water had been set for him to wash; the damask curtains drawn to block out the morning light. And with it, memories of the night before.
    Free from the camp, he’d abandoned the wagon and headed into the forest. His destination was a logging road that ran along the crest of the mountain—a two-mile run uphill. His exhilaration at being free wore off after the first incline, leaving his legs trembling and his lungs afire. Hardly his nation’s greatest hope. To stoke his resolve, he seized on his shame at having nearly botched the escape, but over the last half mile, that too faded. Anger carried him over the crest of the mountain, his ire at the pitiful condition he’d been left in by Janks and Vlassov and the entire Allied war machine.
    He spotted the Mercedes right off, tucked in a copse of birch trees so that only its chrome snout was visible. A pair of headlamps flashed once and two men dressed in formal business attire climbed from the cabin. “Hurry, Herr Sturmbannführer,” one whispered. “Into the trunk. The Olympicstrasse is only clear until eleven P.M .”
    Nearing them, Seyss took a closer look at the car: A 1936 Mercedes touring sedan, black with spoke hubcaps, whitewall tires, and on its mesh grille a crimson badge displaying the letter
B
in ornate white Gothic script—the symbol of Bach Industries, Germany’s largest armaments manufacturer. He’d thought he recognized it; now he was sure. He’d ridden in this very car a hundred times before the war.
    At last, he knew who had summoned him. Only one further question remained: Why?
    That had been six